Too many news of death, by Ananya S Guha

Too many news of death
no news of birth
only statistics of population growth
India is overcrowded
India is dying with the living they say
Too many news of death
the population is a mere release of birth
but the death is in statistics
in the billions of birth
A story of a nation wanting to sort out births
not deaths
A millions will assault
A thousands will die everyday unreported
Too many news of death
the tears move in eyes of those born.

Amnesia by Ananya S Guha

You have cast your vote
now everything is sealed
hermetically, and when
the ballot boxes open
you know that winning or losing
either way is defiance of politics
and when the farmer protests
there is whimper that masses are
angry.
Where goes the hungry?
Either way winning or losing
is only an arcane way of saying
what will happen will happen.
Then, we will be amnesiac.

Two poems by Ananya S Guha

1
A crutch
I hold on
to
a swivel of hope
in
tantalising wind
the flesh summons
and the wind blows
into
skies as luminous
lights spread into
eerie silence.
2
Umbrellas are painted
sticks to ward off
evil and rains
also the encroaching
heat as a stick
is a rejoinder
to what is happening
in sun and sky.

War First Please, by Ananya S Guha

Fratricide
Holy or unholy
Wars bequeath a legacy
A turning point
Omens of all that is good
Only signatures of a damp life
We cut teeth into flesh
We make love in war
We spar damn it
Wars make things happen
Come to life
Cracking shells and mortars
Only the whimper lasts
Whisper of battle cries
And the deathly ghoul stands as sentinel
Come war means peace and all that goes
With war
Make peace and war at the same time
We need an excuse to have peace
War first please.
So a cold one, a hot one
Lukewarm if you please
Many hopes, many manifestations
That we love war to see blood curdling.

Death of a kind, by Ananya S Guha

And then the floods
flooded my birth
my country, flooded my hands,
feet and legs.
Why the floods
helicopters will do for a visit
a peep into the birth place
of many for whom floods
don’t mean anything
only death of a kind.
..
Floods in Kerala?
Want a national debate in?
So that television channels
can articulate death traps
or politicians who want both
votes and floods?
..
There is in floods
the call of oceans
only the maestro seeks
in hope that the floods
will not destroy his city.
..
Death of a kind
one kind, floods
that are testimony
to a tsunami effect
and the dog that forewarned
it. Keep your hopes alive.

A Mexican Child Speaks, by Ananya S Guha

Am I Mexican?
Where is my father?
my mother, where
are they?
Am I immigrant?
but, where is my mother,
father, sister?
where is home?
where am I?
where are they?
who are them?
my crying is not listened to
I crossed the borders
because they brought me here
where are they?
who have pushed me into
this dark, depressing room ?
..
Where is my country?
What is my country?

Poem for Asifa by Ananya S Guha

Asifa, my love
burns burns
but they who burnt
and mauled you
their hearts have turned
rock like into sediments
of dirt, the goddess in
the temple must have
shivered in terror
O Goddess will you forgive?
don’t you remember when
you appeared from Kailash
during autumn rains, me as
a child watched you with your
dancing maidens, O Parvati
O Siva, where is Asifa now
in which forest of despair, death
and agony? What oblations
will greet you, me, her
where will all the children go?
shrieking in terror?
eight, nine, ten, twelve year olds
Asifa my dear beloved sweet little
girl of my country, they have desecrated
all the temples, churches, mosques and synagogues
in your little little world of horses, forests and peripatetic
travels. You can’t grant them any peace
Nor can I
Only the angry God with his trident can.

Brokering Peace, by Ananya S Guha

Syria they have used
you as a battle field
for a long time
your body is a soldier ‘s
your skin pocked with infinite
marks of hurt before death
scarred with wounds
of women and children
where is your history
your soulful people
are they in the blood
of those fields?
where are those fiesty
signs, love or music
where are those who have
let this hell loose on your
bosom, where do they sit
or are they swathed in your blood
your coffins?
whose conscience
whose voice speaks in those
sabre rattles, in those booms
of artillery, who now will mediate
or broker peace
among mangled eyes, nose, face, ears?

Lenin’s statue  is dead, by Ananya S Guha

Lenin’s statue
is dead
it no longer lives
in a world where
even statues are
killed.
The triumph of death.
Elections don’t end
in winning, there
must be antidotes to
living
see the skull of a statue
in preparedness of
a funereal choice.
..
Lenin’s statue is dead
the funeral is over
but the curfew to mock
the dead is still on.
Still on.
Lenin’s statue is proven
dead. Only the blood
does not cut stones.
..
(After the dismantling of Lenin’s statue in Tripura India on 6.3.017, as a result of  the electoral defeat of the Left Front government there).

God’s Forgiveness, by Ananya S Guha

Nine children died like
cattle bulldozed in Bihar
India, nine children
a drunken’s victims
drunk with death
carrying death
carrying blood in his hands
the faces of children harden
into death
as knives pierce souls
the death in our hands
the stain in our hands remind
that death is watching how many
to kill, children who with laughing
faces do not know that by the looming
seas death masquerades as man,
animal and beast at prey.
Nine families die instant deaths
nine fathers, nine mothers
the magic of numbers go on
the mask of death hoodwinks us
into belief  that the money as
compensation will bring their lives
back to masked faces
death on faces
in this land death stalks the holy
the unholy pray, in errant, visceral  voices
asking god’s forgiveness.

Names by Ananya S Guha

In India it is
names that cloud
skies, open
them into wrath
blood trickles
in faces, nameless
names that pester
names that hector
names that carry
burden of centuries
love, jihad, Aurangzeb
Nehru, Bharat Mata
names that keep vigils
on holy land and cows
names that live in hollow
breath, footsteps, names
that blaspheme
names that murder.
..
What are in these
Names? Games?
lush of sunshine?
metamorphosis of rocks?
names of temples, names
of Gods, names that plunder
names that like leaves sunder
fall, smoldering into
ashen death.
..
Forgive, I do not know
all the names
but I will wrench them
from time’s clasped hands
and unearth mortal remains.
India.

Seventy Years Of Freedom by Ananya S Guha

Mother, seventy
years of freedom
have shackled the
house that you made
with the British furniture
I steadfastly tie them
with a nation’s manacles
Even as the yellow house
grew, the nation shrunk
into cavernous hollows
of windswept children
sunken eyes
stained teeth
cadavers
a nation brought primordial
urge of death
now I swallow all symbols
of  oppression, forget them
to be caught in the cross fire
of a nation’s freedom.
Seventy years is a long time
I passed  only sixty in this nation
whirling into torrid seas
of  seas bludgeoned with
blood, and grime
of people who do not understand
these seventy hears of slow, slow time.

Your New Love by Ananya S Guha

You are falling in love
not with man or woman
you are falling in love
with Hindu, Christian or Muslim
 ..
With blood in your hands
or with blood  in the face,
toe, feet of somebody else
 ..
You are falling in love
with somebody else,
not  Hindu or Muslim
the blood in hands,
feet, the body
or a man hanged by the tree
 ..
Falling in love has become
so changed now, we love
a growl, a bark, a shot in
the air
 ..
You are falling in love
now with the land
not the sea,
your bruised hands
your new love.

Two Nations by Ananya S Guha

Now a cold war
has become hot
two countries
one strategy
neighboring
bordering on
Kashmir trauma
two countries
once one
history never repeats
who says?
history is born out of
ashes of nations fighting
petty destinies.
India and Pakistan
two nation theory
split into atomic sizes
only please don’t throw
the bomb.
Big brothers are waiting.

Woman Harassed on a University Campus by Ananya S Guha

In campus
there is rumpus
motor bike riders
harass a lady
male chauvinists
say: what made ye
roam around in dark
that is not a holy girl’s mark
We in India are made not to roam in dark
don’t you know, of  classes and castes ? Well,
they fly masts
Vice Chancellor poor old blighter
says eve teasing is mightier
simple case
of eve teasing mate
why all  this noise
when this is deemed your fate
in this fight
we men, after all
are right.

Your Only Death by Ananya S Guha

Now, Gauri Lankesh
what was your sin?
being a woman
a journalist ?
In India we mime rape
we love women in closets
then lust
now Gauri my dear
why didn’t anyone rescue you?
because you are ( were) not a cow?
They have got guts these revenge mongers
their guts are hidden in bloated stomachs
are you weeping for them?
Are they laughing their guts, sorry stomachs out?
Now, Gauri Lankesh tell our women not to be afraid
and our men to weep, while protecting the cow
tell women to fight with fistful of tears
Now that they have shot you, seven times I hear
near your house, we will make it a temple
so that these cow herds can come pray, chant
But you were not Muslim
I wonder why they killed you.
..
Chant. Chant. Chant. Pray
Gauri Lankesh emerge out of your coffin
in the second resurrection, so that these
pitiful cows are herded and rescued
from those dying like you.
..
Gauri Lankesh, I had never heard of you
today I hear, with Kalburgi, Dabholkar and the rest
My heart is stripped of love- death.
..
Gauri I love you
though the strip tease they  have done
faulted in your only death.
(On the murder of Gauri Lankesh, the journalist).

Solemn Signature of Death by Ananya S Guha

A journalist reports
we kill, in this country
of hills, mountains and
plains. In this country
barricaded by snow peaks
walls, land which know no
country, only people
We have forfeited songs
of  freedom, slung over
shoulders of enslaved race
we talk peace, not war
but war is in raging footpaths
we wage it against relenting writers
to a photo finish.
In Kashmir even as snow capped mountains
are hidden by rising sun
the blood spots tarnish a nation
now, as refugees come to our embattled
country, we say no to high raised peaks
simmering with discontent.
The journalist was blasted seven times
till her brains outwitted her body.
Solemn signature of death.